


Edging Toward Grey

by BewareTheIdes15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-25
Updated: 2011-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BewareTheIdes15/pseuds/BewareTheIdes15
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't understand the things he's feeling. Luckily he's always got Dean there to help him figure it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edging Toward Grey

**Author's Note:**

> For abeautifullie3 on LJ for her birthday. Beta'd by paper_storm88.
> 
> ADDITIONAL WARNINGS: Rimming

It doesn’t start with Dean. That sounds like a cop out, right? But seriously, it’s not Dean that Sam’s thinking about as he strokes his fist furiously up and down the length of his dick; the warm water from the spluttering showerhead helping to slick the way and cover the soft sounds he can never quite hold back. 

It’s actually Leanne, the girl from the front desk at the motel they’d stayed at five states back, before Dad had found this ramshackle house to dump them in until God knows when. She’d been a couple of years older than him, working part time at the motel on afternoons and weekends. Nice, pretty, smart enough to actually want to talk about books with Sam. And she’d let him kiss her. Like, kind of a lot. He’d even gotten to touch her boobs, which was maybe not quite as exciting as he’d thought it would be – they’re just squishy, what’s the big deal? – but still pretty cool. Plus, she sort of rubbed up against him a couple of times when Sam had his tongue in her mouth, especially that last time before Dad walked in and messed the whole thing up – but that’s not the part he wants to think about now, so he skips right over that into what would have probably happened next if his father wasn’t the world’s most epic cockblock. 

And speaking of. The shower curtain wails as Dean shoves his way inside, knocking Sam out of the way of the spray. 

“Dean! What the hell!?” Sam cries, almost as high-voiced as the grate of metal on metal as his brother closes the curtain again. Stupid voice-change; he’s supposed to be over this crap by now. Cupping his junk protectively against his stomach is pretty pointless since A) Dean has definitely seen his dick plenty of times, and vice versa and B) the only way he can actually keep the whole thing covered is to wrap both hands around it, which is kind of obvious, and also not making his so-close hard-on go away any faster. 

“Dude, we’ve got like ten minutes of hot water in that little tank and I’m not letting you hog it all so you can beat your meat.” Whatever else he’s grumbling gets lost in the non-existent water pressure as he ducks to wet his hair, blindly groping for the off-brand shampoo they bought at the gas station. 

“But-“

“Look,” Dean snaps, “you do that, and I’ll do this and then we can switch, ok?” He half-turns to glare at Sam, a trail of watery foam tracking down the side of his neck as he scrubs furiously at his hair. Somewhere along the way, though, he just freezes, eyes catching on the hand Sam’s still got wrapped around his erection and just hanging out there for a minute. 

“What?” Sam barks. With his brother’s eyes all over him he’s suddenly really conscious – not like he’s ever not conscious of it – of how really not Dean-like his own body is. Dean’s thick, firm muscle and smooth curves where Sam’s lanky and scrawny; everything he’s gained in height he’s lost in weight until even _he_ feels like he’s going to snap like a twig whenever Dean hugs him. He’s got muscles but they aren’t shaped right like Dean’s are; whipcord and hard to match all the places his bones stick out like craggy mountain peaks. Dean did not look like this at fourteen, Sam remembers very distinctly – Dean went from little kid body to grown-up body with no weird gawky period in between. Sam’s starting to wonder if his gawky period isn’t so much a period as just perma-gawk. 

“Huh?” His brother dazedly peels his eyes away from Sam’s skin and on up until their gazes lock. “Oh, nothin’. Just, all these years I thought you musta been adopted. Looks like you’re a Winchester after all.” He smirks and waggles his eyebrows at Sam, glancing down for another eyeful of where Sam’s still stupidly hard. 

“Shut up! Jerk,” he whines back, voice cracking again. There’s something warm blooming in him, kind of like pride, but instead of filling up his chest this feeling is clinging low; creeping around his insides with weird, snail-slime trails of fluttery goodness. He seriously misses the days when the stuff he felt made sense. 

“Bitch,” Dean counters, tipping his head into the flow of water to rinse out the shampoo. “So you gonna do something about that or just stand there getting blue balls? Because, voice of experience, kiddo, they hurt like hell.”

“Yeah, I know how it works, Dean,” he grumbles, because he’s not a little kid anymore, no matter what his big brother thinks. “I just thought maybe I wouldn’t jack it two feet away from my naked brother.” His fingers kind of spasm around a bizarre sparky thing that clamors along his nerves at the thought, but Sam shakes it off as his brother keeps mouthing off. 

“Like you don’t rub it all over me in the middle of the night anyway.”

Sam’s about to spit something in return in the carefully crafted snark he’s been honing over the last couple of years, when his thoughts kind of stumble over the way his stomach just bottomed out. “What? I d- Do I? I didn’t mean-“

His brother rolls his eyes and scrubs the bar of soap under his arms, probably getting those little hairs all over it so it’ll be gross the next time Sam needs to use it; bastard. “Sam, chill. Not a big deal man. I been there.” 

Which is true, Sam very distinctly remembers the first couple of times Dean started rubbing up against him in his sleep, back before he understood what was going on. It was strange, and a little scary, but once Dean explained it to him, eventually he got used to it. He’d always sort of hoped he wasn’t going to be pulling a repeat performance himself, though. 

Tentatively, Sam starts stroking himself again, mainly because Dean’s all chill about it so if Sam doesn’t do it, it’s like losing at chicken. Then his brother will totally call him a prude again like those times Dean’s wanted to watch pornos together and Sam’s gotten all flushed and nervous and suddenly remembered some reading he needed to do while his brother – loudly – jerks off by himself in the next bed. 

Thinking about that really isn’t helping, though, especially because now he realizes he’s been staring at Dean’s dick for, like, possibly quite a while. But, of course, Dean’s Dean, so it’s not as if he could act like a normal person and call Sam a freak or cover up or something. No, Dean’s just standing there under the shimmer of the spray; smirking at Sam with his arms tucked behind his head and giving Sam a prime view of his cock going fat and heavy between his strong thighs. Sam can’t really tell if that makes him feel better or worse. 

“Got a problem there, baby boy?” Dean teases, one wet eyebrow quirked up and catching the hazy light streaming in through the little fogged up window above their heads. 

Sam scowls, “No,” gripping his dick harder like retaliation for something it didn’t even do. Apparently Dean disapproves of the treatment almost as much as Sam’s cock because then he’s there, big hand over Sam’s, loosening his fingers up for him. 

“You gotta be careful with the equipment, Sammy. Delicate stuff here, you gotta treat it right.”

Sam’s pretty sure he caught some of that. Maybe. It’s kind of difficult to concentrate right now because Dean’s still got a hand on Sam’s freaking dick, guiding him in steady, quick strokes. Plus he’s just, like, _there_ , you know? Like, really really _there_ , up in Sam’s space the way he always is, except not the way he always is because he’s naked and wet and-

“Here, I’ll show you a trick. Speed things up,” Dean grins, a wink tacked onto the end of it that makes Sam’s heart do a funny lightning-bug skitter.

Before Sam even has a chance to react to that – he’s not doing such a hot job at reacting to anything right now – Dean’s other hand snakes around behind him and slips, easy as you please, between Sam’s buttcheeks. Like pure energy injected into his veins, two of Dean’s fingers circle his hole – his freaking asshole! – two, three times, an extra little push of pressure at the end of the last one that makes Sam’s knees buckle and he’s just gone. 

He’s going to call it the adrenaline rush or something. That probably makes sense. Again, really hard to concentrate on reasoning because now he’s busy jizzing all over his brother’s stomach; milky gobs of it clinging to the ripples of Dean’s abs, building up on the curve of his belly button, pearling in the dark hair – so much thicker than Sam’s – that nests around the base of his cock. His cock that’s just as pretty and hard and thick as the rest of him and just thinking that sentence shorts out Sam’s brain, the whole system flashing, “BROTHER!” and, “WRONG!” at him before it aborts function and shuts down. 

Dean grins blindingly down at him, face a little flushed even though the water pittering around their feet is cold now. He leans in just a bit and Sam tips his head up without even thinking about it, almost accidentally catching Dean’s lips before his brother shies away at the last second with a quiet, injured sound and glances his lips off of Sam’s cheek instead.

The ticklish heat of his breath pulses against Sam’s ear for a couple of hard breaths and then, just as fast, he’s pulling away, all smiles as he ruffles Sam’s wet hair and steals the one good towel. 

So yeah, that’s how it starts, but it’s not even close to where it ends.

***

They’re spending the summer in a week-to-week in South Carolina with peeling floral wallpaper and a fine veil of dust in permanent residence on the feet-smoothed floorboards – nice enough by their standards, even if it doesn’t have a TV or air conditioning. There’s not a whole lot to do in town, even if town wasn’t a good half-hour walk away, so Sam’s settled on spending the days of however long Dad decides to let them stay catching up on his summer reading list, letting Dean pretend to teach him stuff about the car, and swimming out on the river that winds down the back side of the county line like a snake. Swimming’s good because it’s a sure-fire way to get cool in the merciless humidity that leaves them both constantly steeping in a sheen of sticky sweat and it also usually means that he can get Dean distracted by whatever girls are inevitably out sunning on the river rocks and maybe win a little time to himself to think. God knows he could use it right about now.

Sam’s got one foot off the lopsided front porch, dust instantly filtering into his sandal to form a muddy paste under his foot, when Dean’s “Ah!” halts him like a scolded dog. 

“What?” he sighs, not particularly wanting to turn around to see his brother standing there in nothing but an overused pair of black swim trunks. It’s bad enough that Dean hardly bothers putting on a shirt unless they’re going into town, having his legs hanging out there too all muscled and strong with that little bit of curve that Dean downright despises is rapidly becoming too much. That Sam’s sex-obsessed brain has a thing for bow legs is something he could have lived to a ripe old age without ever needing to know.

“Sit,” Dean commands, wiggling a finger at the steps Sam’s still got one foot resting on, flipping a bottle of sunscreen over in his other hand. 

“Deeeeeean!” Yeah, fine, Sam’s whining. He’s fourteen friggin’ years old, he’s going to be in high school in the fall; he doesn’t need his brother putting sunscreen on him anymore, especially not since the shower thing last week, when his crotch decided it was A-OK to start reacting to everything Dean does. 

“Saaaaaam!” his brother mocks back, not budging. A battle lost before it even started.

With a huff, Sam sits down and pulls off his shirt. “Not a little kid,” he grouses over the sound of Dean uncapping the sunblock and warming it between his hands – pointedly ignoring the way his dick takes an interest in the slick sound, twitching inside his hand-me-down swimsuit. 

“Yeah, well, you bitch like one for three days when you burn and I’m not putting up with your shit.” 

The lotion is still shockingly cool when Dean starts rubbing it into Sam’s overheated shoulders, slicking it down his skinny arms and the length of his spine, bump-bump-bumping over his ribs. It feels kind of good – Dean’s wide hands, strong fingers, the sunscreen-slick hardness of calluses slowly rubbing over his skin, almost like a massage. So different from the way Leanne’s soft, little hands had felt on him and so incredibly far from helping Sam’s dilemma it’s not even funny. 

Then the first couple joints of Dean’s fingers slip underneath the waistband of Sam’s trunks in the back, rubbing in the sunblock where his trunks are bound to ride low later – always do, no matter how tight he ties them. It’s not anything close to the other day, but still close enough when his brother’s fingertips smooth over the delicate, enervated dip of flesh at the very top of his crack, circling just a little to get it all covered. At least Dean has the decency not to say anything when Sam shivers. 

He doesn’t mention it either when he squirts out another dollop of sunscreen to spread over Sam’s front and finds Sam’s nipples pebbled diamond-hard against his palms, the slightly rough drag lighting a fire under Sam’s skin that’s hard to breathe around. He doesn’t say anything as Sam’s muscles flutter under his touch as he coats Sam’s belly – can’t even look down and watch his brother’s hands rubbing the white lotion into his skin, too many filthy idea springing up at just the promise of that visual – or when his fingertips skate underneath the waistband again, in front now, and find the tip of Sam’s attention-greedy hard-on waiting. 

Dean doesn’t even pause, only a tiny hitch in his breath to say he notices or cares that he just had a hand on his little brother’s wood – why should he, he’s already done it on purpose, right? But he doesn’t hurry things along either, taking his sweet friggin’ time coating every last inch of Sam’s torso, pressing in on spots that ought to be ticklish but suddenly are just sensitive in a really good-bad way. It’s a strange kind of feeling that’s really good sinking into his bones but goes sour somewhere along the way to his gut.

His brother leans in close, chest pressing against Sam’s back, sticking where the sunscreen’s still tacky on his skin. More of the lotion gets smoothed over Sam’s legs, rubbed a little harder over the muscles of his calves like Dean does for him when he gets growing pains, then way up high on his thigh so that Dean has to bunch the trunks back as he sweeps his fingers along the insides of Sam’s thighs. Sam bites his own lips between his teeth and tries to ignore the little cool spot he can feel at the head of his dick where he’s soaking through his swimsuit. 

Just before Dean pulls his hands free – Sam’s going to freaking die, his skin tingling all over, not an ounce of air sliding into his tight lungs – he stops to wiggle a finger just under that wet spot, like scritching under the chin of a stray dog, then he gives Sam a quick pat on the belly and flings his discarded shirt in Sam’s face. 

It takes him another minute to scrape together enough brain function to get up and follow his brother to the car. By the time he’s got the metal door-handle trying to sear the flesh off of his palm, Sam’s decided that he’s got to find a way to figure himself out, immediately if not sooner, before things get even more messed up.

***

It’s actually a lot harder for Sam to get hold of porn than most people would think. He’s had guys in school before ask him to get his brother to get them beer or cigarettes or skin mags because Dean seems like the kind of guy who’d do that for them, and heck, he probably is. If Sam had ever bothered to ask, Dean probably would get him stuff – not cigarettes, especially after the way Dad took the Impala away for three months when he found that pack of Marlboros stuffed in a nook of the car’s trunk, but the rest Dean would probably go for – but Sam could never fathom asking. 

See, the thing is, Dean’s nosy. Not like town-gossip nosy, or wanting to know every thought that runs through Sam’s headnosy, but the kind of nosy where finding out that Sam has a secret - any kind of secret even if it’s just boring, private stuff that most normal people keep to themselves - sends him into some kind of frenzy where he just _has_ to know, like it’s physically painful to him that Sam could want a little sliver of his own life all to himself. 

The first time Sam ever had a wet dream – thank God they’d had separate beds that time – Dean had hounded him about it for days, pouting and sulking when Sam wouldn’t tell him what it was about, throwing out filthy guesses that had Sam blushing bright red and desperately trying not to come all over again until he finally just gave in and told Dean all about it. Don’t even get him started about how Dean had flipped out after he’d found out about Leanne, like Sam had been hiding the fact that he had cancer or something. 

So, yeah, he’s never asked Dean for anything because then he’d have to go into detail about why he wanted it and exactly what he wanted and, like, how it makes him feel and just really, really no. And despite the many, many arguments on the matter, Dean’s not at all above going through Sam’s duffle if the thinks there’s a chance that Sam’s hiding something, so keeping porn around would be stupid. Besides, he doesn’t think anything he would have kept around before now would have helped much anyway. 

The real downside of having a sexuality crisis in South Carolina is its freaking South Carolina so it’s not like there’s a lot of gay porn just lying around. Being fourteen is the exact opposite of helpful too, since store owners tend to shoo him off if they catch him so much as looking crossways at the top-shelf magazines, so it had taken most of a week to find what he wanted and work up the nerve to steal it while the clerk was in the back. He’d grabbed it the first opportunity he got and ran, flat out, for what had to be a quarter of a mile; his mind trying to convince him the whole way that they’d come chasing after him any second and see what he took and then everybody would know – Dean would know – and then they’d have to, like, talk about it and everyone would look at him funny… 

He hid it behind the toilet tank in the bathroom, waiting impatiently for the hours and hours it seemed to take for Dean to finally fall asleep that night so that he could sneak out of bed. The door doesn’t lock, which is probably the scariest part yet; every cicada buzz and groan of wood shifting in the walls setting Sam on edge as he fishes around between the toilet and the wall for his prize. 

The thud of his heartbeat feels like the crescendo of music in the B-movie screamers that Dean likes; a soundtrack feeding in on itself, swelling and pushing his pulse even faster. It’s a shocky high, caught somewhere between panicked and giddy, breath stuttered as it tries to come out like he’s running a marathon and he fights to keep it regular. 

He settles on the floor with his back against the door, legs spread wide around the semi-hard bob of his dick, the cool of the faded-green tile seeping through the thin cotton of his boxers. He flips past the first page, each shift of paper like it’s coming over a loudspeaker. Ads, ads, more ads. Honestly, does anybody buy these things looking for products and crap? No. So just show him the dick already. 

Sam’s insides do an unsteady flip, wobbling a little on the landing because he actually just thought that; he actually just thought about wanting to see dick. Oh God, seriously, what if he’s… no, don’t think about it, just look. Just freaking look. 

His breath hangs for a fraction of a second when he finally gets to a spread of pictures, afterburn of used oxygen shuddering in its wake all through his chest. There’s two guys, and he could really care less about the pictures of them leaning back and trying to look sexy or whatever – Dean pulls that crap all the time and he’s totally better at it, anyway – but then they’re naked and one of the guys is bent over, the other one sliding a finger inside the pink curl of his hole. It’s all glisteny and slick looking, lube probably; his brother’s gone on and on about the best kinds of lube and what they’re good for. Sam’s can’t tell for crap which part of that thought is making precome blurt out of the tip of his dick. 

On the next page both of the guys faces are out of frame, which is actually a lot better, especially since it’s a close up of the one guy’s hole; almost red, shiny-wet, stretched obscenely around a knot of four of the other guy’s fingers. Sam’s lungs are aching for air, cold-hot-cold prickles all over his skin. The ring of muscle around his own hole clenches, dick jumping in time. 

He’s only gotten off cursorily since that time in the shower with Dean, very carefully not thinking about anything, going as hard and fast as he could to make sure he didn’t lose it in his sleep – and all over his brother - instead. Now he wants more than that. Now he wants to do it just like Dean did, but more, actually sink in a finger, a couple, see what it would feel like to be open wide like the guy on the page in front of him. His body’s telling him it would be good, so good, just try it, and damnit this wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This was supposed to prove that this is something freaky and gross and not at all something he’s into; wasn’t supposed to make him want it. 

“Sammy, you sick?”

Sam’s seriously _this close_ to crawling right out of his skin when he hears Dean’s voice on the other side of the door, feels the pressure against his back as his brother tries to push it open. 

There’s a thread-bare bathmat in front of the shower and Sam dives for it, desperate, doing everything he can to shove the magazine underneath it before Dean wedges his way into the room.

“What’re you doing?” Dean asks, eyes squinted against the light of the bare bulb over the sink, hair sleep-messy and soft without the gel. 

“Nothing,” Sam denies immediately, a crap-ass answer considering he’s sitting on the bathroom floor at one in the morning, with a blush he can feel turning his cheeks into radiators and his hard-on stretching out the front of his boxers.

Dean grins slyly, stepping around the sprawl of Sam’s legs to lean against the wall. “Ooooh. That kinda nothing, huh?” 

“No. Shut up.” Logically Sam knows that scooting closer to the bathmat, trying to block Dean’s view, is only drawing attention to it but he can’t stop; everything Dean and Dad ever taught him about being sneaky flying right out the window along with his common sense. 

Dean’s face does a weird thing. Not exactly going soft, but sort of shifting, changing into something that’s stuck between the ‘it’s ok, you’ll be better when you’re older’ face and the ‘I am going to rag you about this until the day you die’ one. 

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with it, you know? Everybody does it.” Dean kneels to allow his hand to settle warm on Sam’s ankle, cuffing it loosely, and every last nerve-ending in Sam’s body migrates to the spot. 

He’s trying to come up with something good to say to that when his brain is literally refusing to fire off a thought but it’s too late because Dean’s crawling in closer, one knee pushed up close to Sam’s groin as he reaches back and plucks the magazine from underneath the mat. Sam’s eyes slam shut and stick like that, can’t even begin to deal with the look on his brother’s face when Dean finds out he’s… that he’s a… Oh God. 

The rough heat of Dean’s hand feathering along his jaw makes him jump again, eyes flashing open against his will to find his brother so, so close. 

“Calm down, baby boy. Gonna give yourself a heart attack,” he soothes, fingers curling a stray lock of humidity-curled hair behind Sam’s ear, pulling him forward so that the prickle of Dean’s stubble rasps against his cheek. “Shhhh.”

“It’s not- I’m not-“ Sam searches for the right words, the right things to say, aching not to be as damn transparent as he always is to his brother, “I’m not sure.”

“About…” It’s only the smallest nod of Dean’s head toward the sprawled pages of ink-glossed porn but Sam’s heart thunders as if Dean announced it to the whole world and instinctually he burrows in against his brother’s neck. He feels like a little kid, but he can’t help himself, somehow it seems like it will all be better if he’s got Dean protecting him. “Hey, this isn’t about… about the shower, right? I mean, you know that doesn’t mean anything. Lots of guys get off on that stuff.”

Not for the first time Sam wonders whether he ought to be grateful that his brother’s so in sync with where his head’s at or just be terrified by how much of him is evidently laid bare for Dean to see all the time. It’s kind of amazing he ever manages to have secrets in the first place. 

Dean’s thumb rubs a soothing path up and down his spine and Sam feels himself melting into the heat of his brother’s sleep-sweaty skin without even meaning to. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, of course,” Dean assures, “I mean, it’s okay if you’re into guys, there’s nothing wrong with it, but the whole anal thing doesn’t make you gay. It’s just however you feel, you know?” 

Sam can barely get his mouth to open enough to mumble, “I don’t know how I feel.” Which isn’t exactly true – he knows he feels like an idiot admitting it, because if anything, this is the kind of stuff he’s supposed to know, right? The dreary paint ought to be peeling off the walls with the sheer heat pouring off of Sam’s face, but Dean just rubs his own cheek against the top of Sam’s head like it’s nothing at all. 

“Well, ok,” Dean says reasonably, the same voice he uses when he’s talking Sam through his homework or reassembling a gun, “what about that girl Dad caught you with? Leanne. You liked her, right?”

It catches Sam off guard for a second because he’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t even remember the names of the girls he has actual sex with, so it’s kind of stunning that he knows Leanne’s off the top of his head. 

“Yeah.”

“And, um… you liked doing stuff with her?” There’s something tight in Dean’s voice when he asks, but Sam can’t tell what it means without looking up into his brother’s face and he really doesn’t want to do that while they have this particular conversation.

“Yeah, but…”

“But?”

“But it…” he stalls out. This is the first time in about as long as he can remember that he wishes Dad was here playing drill sergeant because he’d have ordered them back to bed way before now and Sam wouldn’t actually have to admit this. “It wasn’t as good as when you… you know.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s fingers clench ever so slightly on Sam’s back and Sam can actually hear him lick his lips, the sound sticky like his mouth is too dry. “That’s an option too. Some people go for both.”

He hates this, hates it so much, feels just as stupid and helpless as he used to back before he knew about ‘the family business’ when he’d watch Dean pace around staring at the phone and pretending like everything was ok. But still, he has to ask; has to know this stuff because he can’t spend the rest of his life popping boners over his big brother and not knowing what it means. “How d’you know? If you do, I mean.”

Dean shrugs, gravity pulling Sam’s body in a little closer as his weight shifts with it. “You mess around, try stuff out. Same as anything.” 

He’s been sitting with his knees bunched up around him, curled into a ball against his brother’s side like maybe he’ll disappear from The Most Uncomfortable Moment Ever if he just tries hard enough. The shift, though, makes him rock forward, giving him a clear view of his brother’s lower body where he’s sprawled out on the tile next to Sam. 

He’s in nothing but a pair of worn-thin boxers that used to be either blue or white but are now stuck somewhere in the middle, edging toward grey. That’s not really remarkable, most of Dean’s clothes live in varying states of scruff until they either wear out or Dean passes them on to Sam. What is unusual is the way Dean’s dick is resting plumply between his thighs, the outline of it distinct enough through the thin fabric to see the ridge of the head, the little divot at the very tip where his slit is. He’s not hard, but he’s not exactly soft either and while that’s certainly not a brand-new sight for Sam, it slinks right under his skin to curl smokey-hot through his belly. 

Maybe it’s because he’s so busy trying to figure out what that feeling means that he asks, or maybe it’s one of those strokes of daring that always end with him popping off to Dad or getting goaded into some stupid dare by Dean, but whatever the reason, the question, “What… what do _you_ go for?” comes flying out of his mouth before he’s got a clue it’s going to and then there’s nothing he can do but wait to see how badly it’s going to end this time. 

Green eyes snap to him, sharp and edged with something Sam can’t make sense of; something hungry and pained and almost hopeful. “Lotta things,” he mumbles, pale skin darkening beneath his freckles to a rosy pink. Sam’s not sure what that means either, but he can feel it’s important, like the answer is right there on the tip of his tongue and he just can’t get to it. 

Time goes off on a coffee break, leaving him and Dean staring at each other; searching each other’s faces for something Sam doesn’t even know if he’ll recognize if he sees it. In the blink of an eye, Dean’s expression morphs from ponderous to one that Sam knows all too well as the harbinger of a really terrible idea. 

“Come on.” Dean hoists himself up, moist palm squealing along the tile as he drags Sam along for the ride.

“What?”

“Come on,” his brother insists. He tugs Sam the two and a half steps over to the too-small sink under the medicine cabinet. “We’re gonna try something.” 

“We what?” 

Dean doesn’t answer. Instead, he grasps Sam’s wrists, jostling him around until his hips are pressed against the shock of cool ceramic, his boxers not doing a damn thing to mellow the chill. He’s got a hand braced on either side of the taps, his left between the spit-cup that holds their still-wet toothbrushes, his right sliding a little as his palm sets down on their cracked bar of soap. 

“Just like that, ok?” his brother enthuses breathlessly, his body heat a long muggy line all the way down Sam’s back that leaves him shivering as cool air rushes in when Dean steps away. Sam watches him go in the mirror, disappearing back into the pitch-darkness of the bedroom. The rustle that follows sets Sam’s nerves even farther on edge, honed instincts screaming at him about the dangers of what can be heard and not seen, keeping him on his guard as he tries to sort out what exactly the hell his happening. He comes up blank but still can’t seem to find the will to move. 

Dean comes back into the bathroom in a rush, and the look on his face – an attempt at his usual smirk, but with this manic tilt to it that Sam doesn’t recognize, let alone know what to do with - is so distracting Sam’s not even paying attention to what Dean ran off to fetch. At least not until the little plastic bottle shunks hollowly against the edge of the sink. 

“Lu- lube?” Sam squeaks, not enough wits about him now to even feel self-conscious about it. He adds after a brief moment of blank staring, rather incredulously, “ _Cherry_ lube?”

Dean chuckles but he still sounds like Dad’s had him doing sprints when he replies, “Gotta love the irony. Cherry for your cherry ass.”

“Dean!” The bark of it is as much surprise at the words as the way his brother’s big hand momentarily settles on the curve of his ass, the heat scalding him right to the bone and somehow feeding into the achy thrum building at the base of his rapidly reappearing hard-on. 

“The watermelon kind tastes weird, ok?” Dean snaps back, for moment sounding like nothing at all but Sam’s big brother. “When you buy your own lube, you can have whatever kind you want. Now drop’em.” 

He doesn’t actually wait for any of that to filter into Sam’s brain – it’s like everything upstairs turned to pea soup and nothing much is making it through – just grabs the loose elastic waistband of Sam’s boxers and hauls them down around his ankles. The touch of the fever-hot flesh of his filling dick touching the cold bowl of the sink leaves him reeling, gasping, knees turning into wet noodles. 

“What d’you…” Sam starts, genuinely not sure where he’s going with that since he’s pretty much running on cruise-control here. 

Dean completely ignores him in favor of snatching Sam’s hand where it’s gripping the edge of the sink and drizzling lube over his fingers, the smell of artificial fruit – a gut-wrenching jolt of familiarity from nights of Dean slipping into bed after one of his dates - tangy in the air. 

“Have you tried it? Since the shower?” his brother asks, his own fingers sliding between Sam’s to cover them completely in slippery liquid. Like a kick to the head, Sam gets it; what Dean’s talking about, what Dean wants him to do. His dick is back to pound-nails hard in the space of a heartbeat. 

His brother’s hand guides Sam’s down behind himself and he startles skittishly at the first touch of his own slick digits on the cheek. Dean shushes him, pushing a little with his free hand on Sam’s back to urge him to bend forward over the sink. He can’t see what’s going on so he ends up watching his own hazel eyes – barely hazel anymore, irises drowning in pupil – disappear and reappear behind the fug of his rapid-fire breath on the medicine cabinet mirror. 

Strong fingers slot into place behind Sam’s; using them like an extension of Dean’s own hand as he curves one and slides it into the cleft, searching out the pucker of Sam’s hole. He doesn’t know he’s going to moan until the sound is already reverberating loud off of the tile, but at least the pressure in his chest eases a little with it.

“Alright, now, relax, go slow,” Dean murmurs like encouragement, swirling Sam’s wet fingertip over his opening again and again, coaxing until it stops clenching against every touch and starts to ease up. “Just like that. Don’t force it, just let it slide in.”

Sam’s forehead thuds into the mirror as the first joint slips inside, Dean’s finger still skating around the outside, teasing at him. 

“That’s it. Fuck, you take it so easy, baby boy. Made for it.” Dean’s babbling, a layer of reverence slapped on top of that dirty-mouthed thing Sam’s heard him pull with girls before. He always thought it sounded stupid but now he just thinks it’s going to make him cream himself. It’s probably a special kind of wrong that having his big brother pant at him all awestruck about the way his ass ‘just opens up and takes it’ or how he ‘pinks up so pretty’ is a couple thousand times hotter than even the dirtiest thought he’s ever had about anyone else. 

His finger is sliding in and out of his body now, smooth as silk on another little drizzle of lube Dean poured over his hole. Dean’s still guiding the motion, setting the tempo of Sam’s knuckle bumping against the entrance to his own body. There’s a hot little ember burning somewhere in the middle of his gut, heat slowly spreading out until he’s sure he’s going to spontaneously combust. 

“How’s it feel? You like it?” Dean groans and it’s not even close to being a question. Still, Sam peels his forehead off of the glass, meaning to shoot back something semi-coherent. Whatever it was going to be is lost, though, the second his eyes focus on the picture they make; Sam bent over the sink, naked, hard – so hard, oh God, it’s like his dick is trying to kill him it hurts and feels so good at the same time – cock hanging over the lip of porcelain so the steady drool of precome he’s leaking smears shiny around the sink and tracks slowly to the drain. His eyes barely even look human, so wide and dark against skin that feels like it should be sizzling in the air it’s so hot with the rush of blood so close to the surface. His ears and lips and nipples are all dark red like they’re burnt or like… like maybe they’ve been kissed and pinched and bruised up from somebody else messing with them and it makes his dick twitch and pulse even though he knows it’s not true. 

And yeah, all of that’s great, bizarre, but still kind of great; but it’s got nothing on the way Dean looks standing behind him. He’s just as flushed as Sam, except his runs down his chest in a wide V, like an echo of the cord of his amulet, skin blotchy at the edges just like when Dad puts them through drills. His hair’s sticking up all over the place like he just rolled out of bed, but now it’s clumped up in places that catch the light wetly like maybe he forgot he had lube on his hands and ran one through his hair anyway. His eyes are homing-beacon locked on Sam’s ass, where Sam’s finger is disappearing into the ever-looser grip of his channel, full lip caught between his teeth. But the best part, the hottest part, the part that grabs Sam by the throat and just nails him to the wall, is the way his brother’s hips are churning, grinding up against empty air in perfect time with the rhythm he’s working Sam’s hand with. If he angles his head just right, in the reflection it looks like they’re fucking.

An approving grunt is about as close to a response as Sam ever manages to spit out, along with the soft, precome-sticky tap his dick makes as it jumps against cold ceramic. 

Without another thought, he pushes in a second finger, a barely-there burn accompanying the sudden sensation of renewed fullness and in a messed up way that feels even better, just that tiny dose of pain. Well, that, and the best-pie-ever groan his brother unleashes into the hush of their panted breaths. 

“There you go. Fuck, that’s pretty.” Dean’s closer all of a sudden when it felt like he was already swallowing all of Sam’s space before. The moist heat of his breath tickles along Sam’s shoulder and he shudders all the way down, feels it in the tightening of smooth muscles around his fingers. If he lasts another two minutes it’ll be nothing short of a miracle. “Now just, just spread ‘em a little, yeah,” Dean commands, pushing one of his own thick fingers into the webbing of Sam’s, forcing them to spread while carefully keeping his own digit on the outside of Sam’s body. He’s about this close to begging Dean just to push it in, but then his brother adds, “and twist,” and Sam’s mind garbles like a worn out cassette tape as Dean suits actions to words and turns Sam’s hand, messing with the angle in this really phenomenal way. 

“Shit!” Sam can’t hold back a shout, free hand abandoning the effort to hold him upright in favor of tamping down around the base of his dick to hold off his orgasm. He may be new to this whole game, but that trick he learned fast – a necessity if you want to be able to not blow your wad when members of your family randomly burst into the bathroom to shave or take a piss when you’re in the middle of jacking it in the shower. This time, he’s just not ready for it to be over. 

“Yeah? That good?” Dean asks, stupidly, all smug even though he sounds just as strung-out as Sam. 

Dimly Sam hears himself muttering, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” but it hardly registers over the ocean-roar of blood in his ears. That’s also probably why he doesn’t hear the shuff of skin on tile as his brother moves so he doesn’t have a clue that Dean’s gotten to his knees until his eyes fly open at the shiver of warm breath over his hole that just barely precedes the satiny, hot touch of Dean’s tongue sliding between Sam’s fingers. 

“Dean!” probably would have been another shout but Sam hasn’t got another scrap of air left in his lungs so it comes out as more of a gut-wrenched croak.

Dean hums something that might be a reply or might just be designed to play havoc with Sam’s ability to function as the vibrations buzz into his skin and straight up his spine like an electric shock. It doesn’t take a whole lot of urging to pull Sam’s fingers free – his whole body operating with virtually zero input from Sam, all of his focus on the kiss his brother’s tonguing _right there_. 

Eating him out, Sam’s brain supplies, Dean is _eating him out_ and it’s a sugar-rich, tar-black thrill bubbling through his veins. 

Dean’s tongue skirts around the edges, a blunt, slick point of pressure that leaves Sam fighting desperately to hold back a whimper. It’s so good and weird he can’t help but squirm with it, like his body can’t figure out which way is up with Dean doing that, can’t make heads or tails of whether it wants to make it stop or ask for more. 

“You like that, Sammy?” Dean asks, like Sam doesn’t have enough on his hands just to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head at the feel of his brother’s spit-wet lips skimming over his hole. There’s got to be something wrong with him, no way there’s supposed to be that many nerve endings right there but Sam’s whole body is quivering in the wake of it anyway, so the vague, “uh-huh,” he manages to groan out seems pretty unnecessary. His brother moans out something else that sounded kind of like words but not enough like it for Sam to make sense out of with the, like, two brain cells he’s got left. He decides not to worry about it, because then Dean just cuts loose and the memory of the whole English language dribbles right out of Sam’s ears. 

Sam hasn’t got an ever-loving clue what’s happening because that’s his brother back there, and that’s his brother’s tongue – holy motherfuck – narrowing down to a point to slide right up inside and that’s, like, a double order of extra-crispy, batter-fried _wrong_ but then that slick muscle is curling and licking around _inside him_ and oh God, it’s going to kill him, he’s actually going to die from how good this feels and he hasn’t got one single regret, not one. 

Heat flares up the back of Sam’s neck as he arches his back, pushing his ass out further, pushing it back against Dean’s face, and he flashes back to that time he’d caught Dean and Shannon Ellory out behind the field house at the high school a couple of years ago. Dean had had her pressed up against the wall, this tiny pink skirt pushed up around her hips and even tinier white panties hung around her knees. She’d moaned and arched back against Dean as he’d humped forward roughly and Sam had peeked around the edge of the building and thought ‘slut’. His face had been near-sick with guilt over even thinking something so mean back then, but he thinks it again now, about himself this time as he mewls at the slurping suckle of his brother’s mouth on him, and it’s not guilt that makes his stomach try to twist in two.

Spit runs cool and ticklish over his balls, slowly down the inside of his thighs. He can feel himself clench reflexively around Dean’s tongue as his dick jumps – the slap of it against unyielding enamel almost painful – and his brother moans again. His fingers dig into Sam’s hips hard enough to bruise, lifting him up on tiptoe to get his mouth even tighter to Sam’s body, tongue lapping at his insides like a kitten at a saucer of cream. Sam feels like he must be glowing red with the heat pounding through him on an endless loop, baking alive, and the fingers clamped around the base of his dick are the only thing keeping him from blowing it. No choice left but to hang on and ride it as long as he can.

He looks down the length of his body, over the bridge his dick makes between the sink and his hips to see his brother. It’s a collage of pieces and parts all mixed up around sudden flashes of black and white when Dean unexpectedly sides a finger in and hits something inside of him that leaves Sam practically convulsing, then draws it back out again so he clenching around the absence, blind behind his own eyelids. 

He can see Dean’s fingers though, some still glistening with lube, leaving sticky trails along Sam’s hips as Dean moves him any which way he wants. Dean’s knees are visible too, going pink as they grate against tile between the spread of Sam’s legs. And Jesus, he doesn’t remember spreading his legs that wide – ‘slut’ runs through his mind again, oozes down his spine to nestle warm and content at the base of his spine – but there it is, and right now he’s just desperately glad because there’s Dean in the middle and Sam’s got a perfect view of the way his brother’s boxers are mottled dark with wet splotches and the furiously red head of his cock is just starting to slip out of the opening in the front as he churns his hips futilely. 

Unbidden, straight out of the ether, comes the image of what that would be like all slicked up and ready, pushing at him just like Dean’s wriggling tongue is now, forcing up inside of Sam, splitting him wide, filling him up. Fingers or no fingers, just like that, Sam’s done, body surrendering to spatter out thick ropes of come all over the sink and the mirror and his stomach and their damn toothbrushes. Add that to the list of things Sam’s going to worry about some time that’s not now because at the moment he’s too busy feeling his soul liquefy and shoot out of his dick. 

He’s barely even with it enough to notice when Dean drags his mouth free and slides up behind him, pretty well supporting Sam’s weight since he’s all but useless for any- and everything now. Dean’s hands are all over him, frantic, pulling and swiping, fast and hard enough that there’s bound to be friction burns and Sam’s just soaking it all up, loving it in several really messed up ways. 

“Sammy, Sammy, so hot, so fucking hot, fucking knew it,” Dean’s muttering, on and on between sloppy, uncoordinated kisses all over Sam’s neck and cheek and temple. His brother’s rubbing up against him – rubbing _off_ against him – his hard-on burning hot against the curve of Sam’s ass. He could try to tell himself that it’s exactly like all those times Dean’s done it in his sleep, just a physical reaction, but he doesn’t really think that’s true and doesn’t really want it to be, so he turns just right to get the stiffness of Dean’s bared cock riding the spit-soaked cleft of his ass and his brother shudders. 

He can’t tell whether it feels better when Dean’s fingers scrape across one of his nipples, stoking the fever simmering under his skin or when Dean’s tongue traces around the shell of his ear, just barely dipping in before pulling back to nibble on the lobe instead. All he knows is that it’s ridiculously good and getting better every time the head of Dean’s dick slicks over Sam’s hole; just open enough for it to catch on the edge and drag, so close to sliding in. 

“Do it,” Sam groans wantonly, totally out of his head with the low grade hum jittering along his nerves as he reaches around and yanks at Dean’s hip, “fuck me.” 

Dean’s arms snap closed around him like a bear trap, body ramming Sam back up against the sink, teeth digging in so hard at Sam’s neck around a groan it leaves him yelping. Wet heat blooms over his lower back and down, spreading around as Dean’s hips cant back and forth through the pulses of his orgasm. The blood trying to flood back into Sam’s dick hurts so bad he wants to cry. 

His whimper seems to wake Dean up a little bit at least since he unlatches his teeth from Sam’s skin. It takes another minute or two for his hold to start to loosen, but Sam’s nowhere even close to minding. Dean’s spent length slides free from the clutch of Sam’s muscles and his stomach gives a wet, dirty lurch at the feel of come sliding down to make a mess of the space between his legs. 

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean… it wasn’t going to…” Dean blathers, voice still muzzy like he’s half asleep – like he just came spectacularly, all over Sam’s ass. He shivers all the way down just thinking about it. 

There’s a hot kind of shamelessness rolling through him, completely liquid beneath the skin – wonder if this is the way Dean feels all the time - and if his brother would knock it off with the apologizing or whatever it is he thinks he’s trying to do, Sam could really enjoy it. 

He tries to snap, but it really comes out more of a slurry mumble when he says, “Shut up, Dean.”

And, miracle of miracles, Dean does. 

Like really. Total silence. Sam’s tempted to ask for a million dollars just to see if this wish thing will work twice in a row. Thing is, now he’s worried because Dean’s not talking, so he has to spend a good third of the remaining energy in his body to lift his freakishly heavy eyelids and check to make sure his brother didn’t have a stroke or spontaneously disappear or something. 

Nope. Still there, no apparent signs that he needs medical attention. He’s just kind of staring like a meteor just feel from the sky and crushed the Impala into a flaming ball of twisted metal. He looks like he might cry. Which is basically the exact opposite of the effect Sam would have been hoping to have if it had ever actually occurred to him to hope for something like this. 

He wants to say something to make it better but he’s always had a hard time finding the right words with Dean, the ones he’ll listen to instead of brushing off because he thinks he knows better. Sam’s not even sure he has the right words and, if he does, he hasn’t got the brainpower back to work out what they are. 

For whatever reason, his body manages to interpret the ‘can’t talk’ part but completely overlooks the bit about keeping his mouth shut so when his lips crash into his brother’s – doesn’t remember tipping his head up, much less turning around – it’s all wet and clumsy with tongue, more him mouthing against Dean than any kind of real kiss. 

Dean doesn’t move for that either – flinches really hard, like, so hard there should probably be a special word just for it, but doesn’t move. Not pushing into it, not stepping away, he just stands there and takes it as Sam works his way up to a little technique, licking and sucking at Dean’s slack lips, tongue darting inside to get a feel of the one that made him lose his mind a couple of minutes ago. 

His chin’s candy-sticky, from the lube Sam guesses, catching little hints of synthetic fruit flavoring here and there along with the salt of his brother’s skin and something else that he’s pointedly ignoring for right now because thinking about that is going to take metric tons more mental ability and attention than he has to give right now. Dean’s lips feel feverish against his own; too hot and too plump and just right. He wonders if this is how Dean’s mouth always feels, then shocky pulses flare bright along his nerves as he wonders whether he’ll get a chance to find out. 

There’s a nervous flutter kicking up in his stomach, whispering half caught things about how Dean was just trying to teach him, this is taking it too far, his brother doesn’t want this. Sam presses his body in a tight, naked line to Dean’s front and tells that little voice to go screw itself.

Approximately four and a half billion years later, Dean gets with the program. He lets out this noise like a cousin twice removed from a whimper that gets all mashed to heck around Sam’s tongue, like he just now realized that’s Sam’s been making out with him so long his lips are starting to hurt. But then he kisses back and Sam forgets why he cared about his mouth hurting because wow. 

Wow. 

Dean is awesome at this. Like, Sam’s heart’s trying to climb up out of his chest to get in on some of that action and his knees are giving him the signal that he’s got about ten seconds to get horizontal before they pack it in – that’s how good Dean is at this. 

Sam’s getting pretty comfortable with the whole knee-giving-out idea too, it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make, but then Dean goes and wrecks it by pulling back, cupping a hand to Sam’s jaw to keep him from following when he does. His brother looks down at him, eyes glassy and searching again and Sam’s totally over this whole staring thing – the kissing was way, way better. Which is exactly what ends up tumbling out of his mouth as he leans up and tries to recapture Dean’s lips. 

Out of nowhere, a laugh bursts out of his brother, too high for his usual full-throated chuckle but still a sound Sam recognizes from nights after a hunt, so much adrenaline swimming around in his system it’s either laugh or cry. He’s not really sure what to make of that, but he guesses it’s better than crying. 

“I kinda…” he breaks off into a giggle that Sam is absolutely going to give him crap about later, “I kinda saw that going different in my head.” 

He smirks at Sam, all Steve McQueen, too cool for this shit, but that thing is back behind his eyes like he’s expecting a punch but still hoping for a treat and he can’t seem to figure out what to do with his hands. Sam thinks maybe he’s starting to understand that look now. There’s a whole bunch of other stuff here he’s not even close to wrapping his head around, but that look; yeah, that he thinks he gets. 

“Yeah, well, maybe next time,” he shrugs, instantly regretting it as the bite mark on his neck pulls and the muscles of his ass shift. Now that Dean’s come is cold, it’s a lot less sexy. Still, his brother’s eyes brighten and that hitch at the corner of his mouth is more like his real smile than the one he pastes on when he’s BSing his way through things, so all in all it’s worth it. 

“Yeah,” Dean says repeats, almost a whisper, “next time.”


End file.
